


Hold Hard, Then, Heart (the poetic declaration remix)

by Lets_call_me_Lily



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Noir
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cap-IM Remix Madness 2020, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Jarvis (Marvel Noir), M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Remix, Steve POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22852765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lets_call_me_Lily/pseuds/Lets_call_me_Lily
Summary: Steve has learned to keep his feelings in check over the course of his friendship with Tony, and he thinks he's doing fine. Until he and Tony open up an antiques store together, and suddenly things become a little too much.This is much harder than that time they'd had to share a sleeping bag while adventuring out in the desert.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 53
Collections: 2020 Captain America/Iron Man Remix Madness





	Hold Hard, Then, Heart (the poetic declaration remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [gripping the ledge of unreason](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21382903) by [firebrands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebrands/pseuds/firebrands). 
  * Inspired by [gripping the ledge of unreason](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21382903) by [firebrands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebrands/pseuds/firebrands). 



> Please disregard that the poems are not, in fact, antiquities. Pretend that they are very old! For the sake of fic!

"If you don't like people handling your precious artefacts, Tony, then maybe you shouldn't have opened up an antique store," Steve says evenly from where he's got the latest news about the new People's Republic of China spread out on the counter. On one side sits a steaming mug of coffee that he'd set down for Tony, and his own cup of tea. Which Tony maintains is not worth the flavour of old socks, having been persuaded to try it once, and only once.

Steve had glanced up ready to smile at Tony's customary sigh of pleasure after the first gulp of coffee, but instead seen him scowling at the young man innocently perusing a stack of ancient oil lamps from Egypt. He had dared to lift one so that he could inspect the bottom for a signature, but at Tony's thunderous face, he quickly—but gently—dropped it back on the pile.

"I didn't say anything," Tony says now, reaching out for the coffee.

Steve nudges it closer, fingers brushing against Tony's. "You didn't have to."

"And it's not like we really need the customers, come on. I told you, we should kick out the ones that touch things!"

This is old ground that has been covered so well, Steve can quote along with Tony's complaints. The next one will be—

"I don't understand why we can't just have a big sign that says 'no touching', or something." Yes, that.

Steve drinks his tea and reads the paper, ignoring Tony's intermittent grumbles. He can tell that there's no need to intervene further, a few months into this new gambit of theirs. At first, he'd had to physically restrain Tony in order to stop him rushing in and snatching antiquities off potential customers, and hadn't _that_ been a struggle, to have Tony so close under such different circumstances than those Steve fantasised about. It took several stern talking-tos before Steve felt comfortable leaving Tony at the counter alone, since he was liable to refuse to sell an item if he thought it wouldn't be well looked after.

It was touching, the regard that he obviously had for each and every item in the shop. Over the course of many years of travelling for _Marvels: A Magazine of Men's Adventure_ , the curios, maps, books, odd bits of furniture and myriad of cultural trinkets Tony kept had accumulated into an impressive collection. When they threatened to encroach into Jarvis' kitchen, he'd put his foot down and declared that Tony needed to clear it out.

After some furious negotiation which Steve hadn't been privy to, Tony had approached him with a new venture: _Marvels Antiquities and Curios, a Stark and Rogers Enterprise_. Steve was between art projects, and so had cheerfully agreed to help man the counter for the time being. After all, they had survived adventuring through the jungles of the Congo and the deserts of Libya together—surely co-owning a shop would be no trouble. Their shared appreciation for ancient things had been what started their friendship, and Steve admires Tony's dedication to wrestling the truth from old myths and half-faded maps. He even likes the hoarding tendencies that accompany the adventuring.

Fact is, he loves Tony. Still, he's never done anything more daring than sling a friendly arm around Tony after a few rounds of drink. It's a bad enough idea to start a business with a friend, let alone try for something so risky and potentially ruinous to their present stability. Besides, Steve had first met Tony as a fan, then as his chronicler, and he didn't want to make Tony doubt the veracity of their friendship, even ten years on.

"Jarvis is making me bring in another box or two that are apparently blocking his lab space," Tony says as he peers over Steve's newspaper, reading it upside down. "As if the old man does anything in the lab anymore. I keep telling him that he's retired, but he doesn't seem to have gotten it through his thick head."

"What's in them this time?"

"Uhh, books, I'm pretty sure. Some poetry." Tony rubs at the stubble covering his chin, and Steve stares pointedly at the photo of the Chinese flag so that his gaze doesn't wander to Tony's full lips, deceivingly thin under his bristling moustache. He clearly hasn't shaved these past two mornings, and Steve berates himself for knowing that, years after they'd last been adventuring side-by-side.

He can't help himself though—Steve follows the bobbing apple of Tony's throat as he gulps down the last of his coffee.

***

"So close that your eyes close with my dreams…" Steve is sitting cross-legged, paging through the books Tony has brought in so grudgingly to the shop. "I didn't know you had Pablo Neruda. D'you mind if I keep this one?"

"Sure, go ahead. That was from when I was looking for references to 17th century dreamwalking, I think. I didn't know you liked poetry?"

Thoughtlessly, Steve recites a few lines from memory: “the fist clenched round my heart loosens a little, and I gasp brightness; but it tightens again.”

Behind him, Tony sucks in a breath, obviously surprised. "When have I ever not loved the pain of love? but this has moved past love to mania!” he quotes the next lines to Steve, moves closer to skim a hand across his shoulders briefly. “I love that poem. Derek Walcott I read for fun, not for a project.”

Steve bites his lip before plastering on a smirk and raising an eyebrow as he turns to look at Tony.

“Never would’ve guessed,” he says, praying that Tony won't hear his heart hammering so hard against his chest it feels like a talking drum is delivering news of his feelings to the next town over.

***

Rain trickles down the display pane of the shop into the wide street gutters. The sound makes Steve want to get back in bed, smothered by thick covers except for his face and the tips of his fingers so that he can turn the pages of the adventure story he's currently reading. At least his sweater is enough to counter the sudden chill that's swept over the city alongside the rain—and he's on his third mug of Lady Grey for the day, dosed with plenty of sugar and a lot of milk to dilute the caffeine and warm him up.

A clatter, a burst of cold air, and some vigorously cheerful cursing heralds Tony's arrival. He strides in, absolutely soaked, with his hair flattened, hands reddened from the cold, and his clothes dripping _everywhere_. He's carrying some sort of takeaway container.

"Forgot my damned overcoat, but I remembered our soup!" he announces, holding said soup cradled in one arm as he swipes a soppy sleeve across his forehead.

Steve shakes his head and makes his way over to Tony. "I think you must like getting rained on, the amount of times that this has happened since we started up shop together. Why don't you just keep a spare set of clothes here?"

"I do not!" comes the indignant reply. "Anyway, you always have a spare sweater for me to borrow."

Ducking his head, Steve takes the soup—their rainy-day staple thanks to Jarvis—and turns back to the counter so that Tony can't see his blush.

"Not today I don't, I'm wearing it. Didn't think it would get this cold."

A hand reaches out to clasp his forearm, and Tony smiles winningly at him. Steve has seen variations of this smile a lot over the years. This smile has convinced stern old ladies that Tony is nothing more than a "charming young fellow" who doesn't mean any harm nosing into their mother's past affair with a famous adventurer. This smile has persuaded children to tell Tony about the secret entrance in the mound they found when they were meant to be minding the goats. This smile has led several dozen ladies to sit on Tony's knee while he shuffles cards for a game of poker.

Steve tries to seem unaffected, but his arm jerks under Tony's cold grasp.

"Hey, you okay?"

The grip gentles and Tony strokes once before settling his hand loosely around Steve's wrist.

"Fine, just cold." _Just trying not to imagine you laying hands all over my bare skin_ , more like. He shudders again, trying to free himself from phantom touches.

"O-kay, if you say so."

Steve extricates himself to polish the lamps—by far the most tempting item to touch—but Tony follows him with boots that tap loudly against the wooden floor of the shop. He's still dripping.

"Hey, come sit and eat your soup with me." Brazenly, he reaches out towards Steve again, as if to clap him on the shoulder. Or brush his fingers over Steve's cheek. Steve skitters away, clutching a lamp tightly. What's—why is he suddenly reacting this way?

Clearly, Tony is asking himself the same question, because he presses closer and demands: "Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing! Nothing's wrong, I'm just not hungry right now, that's all."

"I don't think that being hungry has anything to do with—" Tony reaches out towards Steve, who inadvertently leans away, concentrating too much on not leaning in.

"—That," he finishes uncertainly. "Steve. Have I," and here he gestures broadly while stepping closer again, "Have I done something?"

"No! Nothing, you haven't done anything," _and I haven't done anything, but I want to, and that's the problem._

Wildly, he thinks of Aladdin and the genie, but this, this is not a wish he would've made, having Tony corner him, concerned and arms reaching out in a way that Steve isn't sure he can reciprocate. Because Tony is reaching out as a friend, but Steve—Steve wants more than that.

Suddenly he finds himself striding in the rain, gulping down air as if he's on the brink of an asthma attack. His stomach is cramped into an unhappily churning ball. _Marvels Antiquities and Curios_ is blocks away; he's in the middle of a small park that he sometimes goes to for his lunch break. He is drenched.

Steve stands there for a few minutes, calmed by the steady beat of raindrops on the crown of his head. He's a bit embarrassed, really. He's been in love with Tony for years, and since the hero-worship phase ended, he's been pretty good at acting unfazed. A drunk, triumphant Tony once kissed him smack on the lips. If Steve hadn't confessed his love then, why should he feel so shivery because Tony brought him some soup?

Splashes and a throat being cleared announce Tony's arrival. He looks at Steve searchingly.

Steve shivers.

"You good?"

"Yes."

Tony makes to step forward, but stops himself, hands clenching by his sides.

"Really? Because it doesn't seem like it from here."

"Well, I'm fine!"

A burst of resentment surges through Steve and this time _he_ steps forward, determined to show Tony exactly how fine he is. He's not intimidated by a handsome face and intense eyes and a laugh like no other. He won't let Tony get away with thinking that he, with his kind, overworked heart, his calloused fingertips and curiosity stretching for miles, is anything other than a very dear friend. Steve isn't scared of Tony and he isn't scared of touching Tony, either. Friends can do that. His body just needs to remember to react appropriately, that's all.

He kisses Tony.

 _So there!_ Shouts a corner of his mind. _Look how comfortable I am with you, look how totally fine I am!_

Another part thrums disappointingly and deadpans _, oh yes, such an appropriate reaction. Good job, Steve._

He ignores them both in favour of relishing the kiss, the cold press of their bodies and the shudder that runs through Tony.

He keeps his eyes tightly shut.

"Please," he whispers, simultaneously horrified and exultant at his own brazenness. There is barely any space between them, and the warmth of Tony's breath puffs over Steve, loud over the rain.

"Please let me do that again."

He feels Tony's hand on his face, thumb sweeping over the apple of his cheek.

He swallows, opens his eyes. Blue meets blue.

"Yes. Steve, _yes._ "

Tony seals the words with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Poems referenced are those in the original fic:
> 
>   * [One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49236/one-hundred-love-sonnets-xvii) by Pablo Neruda
>   * [The Fist](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57110/the-fist) by Derek Walcott (also where the first part of the title comes from)
> 

> 
> Thanks for reading; I hope you enjoyed :) Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


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